saints can't help us now
by saltzmans
Summary: It takes Molly three weeks to accept that waking up in Sherlock Holmes' bed on Sunday mornings has become a regular occurance—sherlockmolly.


**notes** | look who's already dying over season three!

* * *

The first thing Molly discovers upon waking on Sunday morning is that Sherlock is an early riser; although she's still not entirely sure he slept all because when he strides in five minutes later he's fully dressed as if the nights forays had been nothing but a bad dream.

Of course then as Molly sleepily runs her hand across her neck and feels the risen mark of a hickey she realises that the nights events have been anything but.

Sherlock looks at her, curiously, as if she's one of his cases he hasn't quite concluded. And that puzzles Molly because she had always thought that the great Sherlock Holmes must have solved her within seconds of laying eyes on her in the hospital morgue.

But now, that look — Molly smiles to herself — maybe she's not quite so obvious as she originally thought she was.

Or maybe it's more to do with the fact Sherlock can't quite figure out why she accepted his offer to accompany him back to his flat the previous night.

(But then again, neither can she.)

/

Out of courtesy, Molly supposes, Sherlock offers to make her breakfast but she declines, half of the basis that she's never been particularly good with morning after chit-chat and partly because she's seen the kind of things he keeps in his fridge.

At the door they pause and Sherlock looks so pathetically uncomfortable Molly has a sudden urge to wrap him in an awkward, half armed hug.

Sherlock remains stiff in her embrace and when Molly pulls away his expression is as indifferent as ever.

"I'll see around, yeah?" Molly asks.

"There's something about the size of abdominal stab wounds in proportion to the victims small intensities I've been wanting to investigate, so yes, I dare say I will see you around." Sherlock pauses,  
as if wanting to add more about the fascination of stabbings but simply finishes by saying, "goodbye, Molly."

And as she walks done the stairs, his words ringing through her brain, Molly can't help but think how much two small words can mean.

/

True to his word, Sherlock appears at the morgue the follow Thursday to study the body of a young man who took a fatal wound to the stomach after stepping into stop a fight between two strangers.

It's funny how the world can turn out really – in a sadistic, ironic kind of way – someone who meant nothing to you, resulting in the end of your very world as you knew it in a matter of seconds, minutes, hours, years.

Molly tries not to look at Sherlock whilst she thinks about that, analysing skin cells whilst the detective hums away above a dead body.

Eventually he speaks first. "The other  
night," he begins.

"Was a one time thing," Molly finishes, her fingers gripping at the microscope. "I don't think it will happen again. Do you?"

"Do you want it to?"

"Do you?"

"You can't answer a question with a question," Sherlock comments.

"You did first."

"I suppose I did."

"So you don't want it to happen again?"

There's a pause.

"I never said that, did I?"

/

It's three weeks later that Molly finally accepts that waking up in Sherlock Holmes' bed on Sunday mornings has become a regular occurrence.

/

It takes a further four weeks for her to stay for breakfast.

/

Her resolves weakens because the way Molly sees it Sherlock is like a river. He starts off small – or as small as he can get – like the drips of a spring beginning in the mountains. But then he begins to broaden. He meanders his way inside of Molly – seeping through her cracks – until he's thoroughly implanted.

Then all of a sudden he's reached the cliff edge and Sherlock's a waterfall, consuming every inch of Molly Hooper until one morning in spring when the sun creates patterns in the dust dancing above crumpled, white sheets, she says yes, she would love to stay for breakfast.

/

As it turns out, Sherlock is a remarkably good cook and Molly reminds herself to add that – along with napkin folding and monopoly – to the ever growing list of things he excels at.

He makes her fried eggs and bacon and when she lets out a laugh at the smiley face he's arranged them in, his look is almost one of surprise, as if he made the pattern by accident and Molly has never been more completely certain that there's a man beneath the mask.

/

The flat seems more cluttered without John – now he's living with Mary – as if Sherlock is using the old books and strange boxes as replacements for his best friend.

"Have you seen John recently?" Molly asks, instantly regretting breaking the comfortable silence.

"No," Sherlock's voice is stiff. "I don't really like to intrude upon the new couple."

"I'm sure he misses you." Molly takes a mouthful of egg. "Like you're  
missing him."

Sherlock's expression freezes. "I–are you finished?" He asks.

Molly says nothing – trying to comprehend the rapid conversation change – so Sherlock whisks away her plate and as the unfinished meal falls into the bin, Molly takes that as her cue to leave.

/

The next Sunday morning Molly awakes in her old bed.

She tries to ignore how much colder it seems.

/

The weeks pass in a monotonous blur. She doesn't see Sherlock except for the day he beats a dead body to a shredded mess with a hunting whip.

Then he washes his hands and goes, leaving only a mutilated body behind, as if he were never there.

/

Baker Street. Now. —SH

/

Molly ignores the beeping in her pocket. She's had enough of being told what to do by Sherlock Holmes.

/

Molly. Please. —SH

/

The phone vibrates by her bed all night.

Molly lies awake – eyes wide – staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore the frantic pleas which come with each buzz and the sound of her heart breaking.

/

I need you. —SH

/

In the end Molly goes to Baker Street. Not because she's a lap dog at Sherlock Holmes' disposal, but because he's broken – Molly can get that much from his texts – and she's never been one to ignore the wounded.

/

Sherlock's a mess, standing in the rain outside Baker Street when Molly pulls up. He's dressed only in his night clothes, feet bare against the pavement and for a man who knows every alley and corner and secret of London, Molly can't help but think that he looks oh so hopelessly lost.

/

Taking him inside, Molly strips Sherlock of his wet clothes until he's standing in the sitting room – bare, aside from underwear. Carefully, she towel dries his hair and his skin, wiping raindrops which could be tears from his eyes lashes.

Sherlock lets her change him into dry clothes and sit him in front of the dying fire, with a mug of tea.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispers, his eyes drooping as sleep begins to consume him. "Molly."

/

"Why did you come?" Sherlock asks, the next day when he's awake as the morning sun is beginning to burn away the nights despair.

Molly pauses, fingers wearing a hole through the sleeve of her jumper. "Because you needed help."

"I could've managed."

"No, you couldn't."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs.

Molly smiles and it's worn and a little bit bittersweet but it's still there. "I know."

/

The following Sunday Molly wakes up in Sherlock's bed but this time he's curled up beside her, a sort of vulnerability radiating off of his sleeping body, and Molly decides that this is what peace of mind feels like.  
.

.

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_please don't favourite without leaving a review!_


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